We gave Ignat Frege an alphabetical list of words. His answers involved flowers, cops, physical injuries, gasoline truck accidents and why he hates fantasy novels.
There is a YouTube video where a guy gets concentrated acids and pours them on his hand, one after another. If you haven’t tried that then you’re probably a coward.
I once filmed my friend Ben releasing colorful balloons into the sky one by one from a huge bouquet. I didn’t post this video to the Internet, so it basically doesn’t exist.
More like Camelittle. Fiction offers you nothing but a diversion from a painful reality which you ought to always be attending to. That is what it truly means to be human.
I have a love/hate relationship with dinner. The compromise is cereal. With soy milk, though. None of that drought berry almond bullshit for me.
I have enough stupid thoughts on my own. Thanks, though.
Who is content with just one of anything these days?
I was never lucky enough for stitches, but I did fall off my bike and scrape the shit out of one entire side of my face when I was 12. When I came home, I wrapped my head in bandages and that was pretty cool. And you can bet your ass I didn’t cry.
You know those pots and pans that have metal handles? Totally idiotic. Or a product of the oven mitt lobby. I don’t need two items to do one thing and possibly hurt myself in the process.
One of my old roommates was covered in tattoos and people would come up to her and say “Damn girl, you illustrated!” She would hate that. I would hate it too if it happened to me, so the ink stays in the pens. Although, I think getting bees tattooed on my knees would be pretty funny. If anyone wants to give me this tattoo for free, please DM me.
Felix and I were stuck on the France/Italy border once because a gasoline truck crashed in a tunnel. We had to drive around that through the Alps with no Internet and no map to get to Paris in time for our show in some restaurant’s dungeon.
Please see “Ink” above.
Since I am Russian, this is what I have instead of blood. I’m drunk right now and all you guys are super annoying.
This is what our parents and grandparents were into when things like jobs and futures existed.
Police officers execute the oppressive and racist will of the state. I wouldn’t ever want to be a cop because I don’t want to ruin someone’s life or kill them.
My dad was a painter. I have never talked to him, but maybe if I did I could have learned how to. I can’t draw or paint for shit. It makes me a little sad every now and then.
Quiver? Camelot? This list is nerdy.
We live in California and rent is so high these days I might as well be a feudal serf scraping at the Camelot walls, dodging arrows from the quiver.
Some pretty shit, probably. I wouldn’t know.
Animals are chill. I’m inclined to let them have their domain if they leave me alone to mine.
I got Felix a birthday gift and wrapped it in pages from the New Yorker. It has been months and he doesn’t know what I got him yet cause he hasn’t finished reading the outside.
Either that stuff they put in yogurt or why Donald Trump won. F*** both of those things anyway.
Eggs are weird. Eggs make socially liberal vegans hypocrites. You don’t eat the egg but you abort the fetus?
Zero is the quantity of f***s I would like to give but sadly I am loaded with f***s, encumbered by f***s. I am weighed down by f***s by an incredible amount. Like this list… I gave a f*** so much I wrote a response to everything. I guess it was my way of thanking you, thanking you for all the f***s you gave about me. I would like to think with the mutual display of f***s here that we could inspire the world. Do you think that is too much to ask?
Curated by: Morgan Enos
Conducted by: Email
Published: January 22, 2018
Alphabetical elaborations: 26
Word count: 779
Reading time: Four minutes
acid, alcohol, balloons, bandages, bees, Camelot, color, coward, dinner, dungeon, eavesdropping, eggs, fiction, flower, gash, gasoline, Ignat Frege, illustration, ink, Italy, jackknife, kneecap, liquor, necktie, New Yorker, Paris, quiver, rent, roommate, Rufus Wainwright, sapphire, soy milk, stitches, sugar, tarantula, tattoo, vodka, xenobiotic, yolk, YouTube, zero
About the curator
Morgan Enos is a songwriter and journalist originally from California. His curatorial work for North of the Internet aims to strike a deeper place in his conversation subjects — the dreamy subtext to the linear everyday. Morgan also frequently writes power pop records as Other Houses about joy, outer space, frustration, chess and spiritual light. He resides in New York, where he continues to creatively fire on all cylinders.
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